Manhattan No. 4

 I am sick and tired of the limbo. Of the ever-between where I feel so sickeningly not myself. Where the things that should come easy to me, like eating and going and being become the hardest chores of the day. 

I feel neglected. Worn out for my shoulder to cry on and my support, and my unwavering encouragement. I am cast off for another.

It is in these constant ebbs and flows of appreciation that I feel myself drowning. Sinking. Filling with water.

I want more for me than this. I want more than to rise and fall on the proffered support of someone else. I deserve to be steady. constant. I deserve the certainty I want so badly. And I won't find it in the people around me.

I'm so desperate to feel okay that even in my exhaustion I am motivated to tackle every self help suggestion in the book-paste motivational quotes to the wall, listen to a hundred sermons on singleness, pray for hours, talk, be silent, garden... I'll do just about anything other than run. 

But I know there is no activity, no hard enough job, or challenging enough class to heal my heart. There is only the mercy of my Father and time. Wretched time with it's unending sixty seconds. Which is never long enough when I have what I want, never short enough when I am in the gut wrenching limbo of wanting and not having, and not knowing if or when I shall ever have it. 

I am tired of being at the mercy of others. I am sick of subjecting myself to the whims of the people who claim to love me most. 

Maybe I'll learn this time. Maybe this will finally be the hardening of my heart. The building of my walls that I thought so impenetrable the last time around. 

When I'm loved, I am so sure the risk is worth it. When I'm not, I realize it never was.